


I Burn And You Catch Fire

by HannaM



Series: Bad Luck And Innocence [1]
Category: The Teahouse
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Character Interpretation, Backstory, Character Study, Disturbing Themes, Don't Have to Know Canon, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Misogyny, Past Child Abuse, Sibling Incest, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:31:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannaM/pseuds/HannaM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even when they were at each other's throats, Rory's sister was never his enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Burn And You Catch Fire

She always knew exactly how to provoke him.

Rory hated conflict, especially with his sister, but she would needle him until he finally lost his temper, his hand flying out to strike her familiar face.

"I love it when you're angry," Remy would breathe. "It's almost like you're a man."

"I _am_ a man!"

It would have been so much easier if she simply denied it, made the insult ridiculous by sheer stubborn ignorance of biological fact. Instead, Remy's full mouth would curve into a smile and, as she leaned in to kiss his cheek, whisper, "Now you are."

They hadn't grown up together like most siblings. Captain Dubois and his wife had always had something of a tempestuous relationship, and one long forgotten day the Captain had sailed off with his toddler daughter to parts unknown, leaving his wife and son heartbroken.

At least, everyone told Rory he had been heartbroken. He remembered very little about his twin sister outside of a vague distant feeling of safety and warmth. There were no portraits of Remy, and only one of the Captain, long since covered up. He wanted to be sad at this, but instead, Rory had begun to feel a creeping sort of envy.

Remy was out there somewhere in the world, seeing all sorts of sights and meeting all sorts of people, and probably having adventures with other kids their age. Rory scarcely got to leave the house, his mother was so anxious about his safety.

The only kids Rory knew were the spoiled children of wealthy merchants whose parents were patrons of his mother's salon. Rory was a regular fixture there, because it was either that or being alone in the house most days. If he was too noisy or too inquisitive, he would be sent home so as not to bother the guests. And Rory hated to be sent home, so he made a careful study of the sort of things they expected from their children.

Rory learned to play cute almost immediately. Especially among wealthy adults who hadn't spent much time with children, the wide-eyed waif eager for praise was doted upon. It wasn't too hard, because it was only partially an act. Rory might have been a good deal smarter and resilient than he let on, but the pleasure in being showered with attention was entirely honest.

Of course, as he got to be older, the performances had to be altered accordingly. People didn't find a needy twelve year old nearly as endearing as a needy seven year old. But a shy twelve year old boy who was just so overwhelmed by all these majestic persons and was ever so embarrassed to be complimented… now that they ate right up.

Still, it was beginning to seem odd that Rory was there at all, now he was old enough to be sent away to school. Rory considered letting the pressure mount so his mother might be forced to consider it, but he knew with a sickening certainty that it was too late for him to ever be a social butterfly. Between his small stature, lack of title and absent father, he'd be the immediate bottom of the pecking order.

So if he wasn't going to go away to school and make proper connections to ek his way up the social ladder, Rory had to learn some kind of way to make a living. Baking was far from his first choice, but he was having a great deal of difficulty teaching himself finance through books, and even if he'd known where to go to learn trades like carpentry or metalworking, he had to be realistic about his physical limitations.

The family cook, who had always had a soft spot for Rory, was happy to see more of him, and as they worked their way through recipes, Rory brought the fruits of his labor to his mother's salon, much to the delight of her guests. This was, he thought, a way forward.

Remy returned on Rory’s sixteenth birthday.

There was no letter, no telegram, no warning whatsoever. Rory was in the kitchen, frosting cupcakes, when he heard his mother scream, _"Remy, is that you, darling?"_ and his world turned upside down.

Rory ran out to meet her, his heart pounding from nerves and excitement. Would she look just like him only with long hair and girls' clothes? Would she be friendly? Would she speak three languages? Would she like raspberry or orange jam filling?

Remy was being hugged tightly by their mother when Rory stumbled into the foyer, his twin's face buried in Mother's hair, which was the same red that Rory and Remy shared. When mother and daughter finally separated, Remy lifted her head and met Rory's eyes.

She didn't look like him, not really. There was a coolness to her that made the familiar features of Remy's face seem utterly different. Her mouth (surely Rory's mouth didn't look like _that_ ) quirked, and she drawled, "Is that my baby brother?"

He approached her tentatively. Remy didn't _sound_ like him at all. Rory's voice had been a source of angst for him ever since it had begun to make pathetic attempts at deepening. Part of why he'd cultivated the shy act had been to keep his mouth shut so he wouldn't be laughed at when his voice inevitably creaked and warbled in ten different places. It had _finally_ settled some months ago, but it was still a shaky tenor at best, nothing like Remy's rich alto.

"Hi, I'm Rory," he said, hands falling behind his back and head tilting downwards to let his bangs hang in his eyes with the ease of long practice. When in doubt, go blushing violet.

Remy looked less than impressed. "I know."

Their mother clicked her tongue impatiently. "You mustn't be shy around Remy, darling. It's her birthday too, you know. Won't you hug your sister?"

Rory leaned in, and Remy threw her arms around him, pulling his body fast against hers.

There was nothing cold about Remy's embrace. Rory was all too aware of her small breasts and more generous hips, and her hot breath against his ear.

He tore himself out of her arms, managed a quick, "Sorryhavetogothingstodoseeyoulaternicetomeetyoubye!" and fled.

The initial plan was to head straight to the bathroom, but maybe, just maybe he could talk himself out of the impending inappropriate boner. Remy was his _sister_. They had the same mother and father, the same birthday, had probably pooped in each others' presence as babies. He wasn't attracted to her, because people didn't get turned on by their sisters' bodies. It was just because Rory hadn't been hugged by a woman remotely near his age group before. It would have happened no matter who it was, it didn't mean anything, it was just embarrassing.

And how narcissistic would it be to want a girl that shared so many of his features, anyway?

So Rory tried to pretend he wasn't actually avoiding Remy, and went on with his day, until it was dinnertime and there was no way to not go down to dinner without offending somebody.

Alastair Struensee, Mother's close friend and (Rory suspected) lover was in the dining room already, conversing with Remy, who threw her head back and laughed at something he said. Mother was looking on fondly, and Rory felt unreasonably resentful. Alastair had never _actually_ been funny.

Remy turned and caught sight of him, smiling. "There you are! We missed you."

Alastair eyed Rory with the same mild dislike as usual, but neither Mother nor Remy seemed to notice. "You must excuse your brother," Mother said, moving to Remy. "He's been very occupied with his studies lately, and though he can be very charming, he's rather bashful, aren't you, darling?"

As she was speaking, Mother's hand brushed against Remy's and, though it was a subtle movement, Rory saw his sister's hand pull away, slipping behind her back.

"I forgive him," Remy said. Her smile made Rory's stomach turn over. "I'm not always sociable myself."

Alastair suggested that she sit between him and Mother, but Remy demurred in favor of sitting by Rory, so Rory was between the two of them instead. Alastair was definitely less than pleased at this development, though Rory had to keep himself from grinning outright. Even if it was his sister, it was fantastic having a woman for once choosing his company over that smug snake's.

Mother understandably had a lot of questions to ask Remy about what she'd been doing the past fourteen or so years. In return, she received many tales of the various glamorous places Remy had been to, with a few little flourishes here and there that Rory suspected were invented for dramatic effect.

And though Mother and Alastair seemed properly impressed, Rory couldn't help but notice which questions she skillfully avoided answering, and the way she framed her stories to give a certain impression of herself.

It was, he recognized, a performance not unlike the ones he'd been giving all his life at the salon. Remy blushed at the right places and played coy to almost coquettish levels, but steered the conversation with proficient ease.

So Rory listened with interest, but to what Remy wasn't talking about. Their father was always carefully skipped past, and there was no talk at all of the months at sea she must have spent. Mentions of other women were few and far between, and long term friends in general she did not seem to have-- any companions that came up in the course of one anecdote had different names from the ones in the next.

After dinner, Alastair offered Remy his arm. After a moment's hesitance, she took it, though not before turning to Rory and saying, "I want to hear more from you, Rory. It's not right that I should be doing all the talking."

Rory gave his best shy smile, which was, for once, sincere. He'd be happy to talk, once he'd gotten her to admit to the act.

But Mother did most of the talking after that, because a few glasses of wine always made Mother chatty, and neither Rory nor Alastair was inclined to cut in.

Finally, Remy said, tentatively, "Is Sir Alastair staying the night?"

"I hadn't noticed the time," Alastair said, unconvincingly. "If our lovely hostess will acqueiese-"

"Oh, it's no trouble at all!" Mother burbled. "You can stay in the guest room next to Remy's."

Remy's smile was clearly forced. "W-well, that's all right then."

"Her room can't be ready for her yet!" Rory blurted out.

"The guest rooms are perfectly serviceable," Alastair replied, and Mother chimed in, "It may not be personalized yet but there's plenty of time for that!"

"I mean," Rory said, thinking quickly, "it's probably uncomfortable, we don't have guests that often. Until Remy's had time to pick her own mattress, she might prefer my room. I can sleep in the guest room instead."

"I wouldn't want to put you out!" Remy protested.

"I really don't mind!" Well, he did, but he minded Remy's discomfort around Alastair more.

"Rory, darling, that just isn't necessary," Mother said firmly. "If you're that concerned about your sister's comfort, you can go with her to the shops tomorrow."

He wanted to argue, but since Rory didn't really have any stronger reason than what he'd already stated, he let the matter drop.

Remy and Rory never did get a chance to talk after that. By the time Mother had exhausted herself, it was past time to go to sleep, and so they all retired for the evening after exchanging some final words.

"Good night, Remy," Rory said awkwardly, fiddling with the button on his sleeve. He knew she didn't find the modesty endearing, but it was too soon to drop the act without having a good idea of what would get a better reception.

Remy seized Rory's hand, stopping the motion. "Good night." She flashed him another dazzling smile, and his cheeks went hot. "I hope we'll be seeing more of each other."

"Well, of course you will," Mother said brightly. "Good night, dears!"

It took a while to wash up for bed, and once he was done, Rory lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He wasn't sure what to make of his twin.

The door clicked.

Rory shot up in bed. "Who is it?" He thought he had locked the door, but it was entirely possible he hadn't. Privacy wasn't usually a problem.

The intruder stepped into the moonlight, and Rory saw her familiar red hair, stark against the far-too-thin nightgown. "I thought I might take you up on your generous offer," Remy said. She was smiling, but the innocent flirt was gone now.

 _Stay calm._ "This doesn't really suit the girl you were pretending to be downstairs, you know."

The smile dropped off her face. "Are you angry?" Her expression was unreadable.

He shook his head. "No. But you can only stay if you're honest with me."

Remy laughed, humorlessly. "What about you? Are you going to be honest with me?"

That was a weighted question. But there was only one possible answer. "Yes."

After a moment's tense silence, Remy sighed and sat down on the bed. "What do you want to know?"

Rory thought it best to cut to the chase. "Why did you really leave our Father and come here?"

Her mouth tightened, and she looked away. "I didn't like that life. And there wasn't anywhere else to go."

He didn't want to keep prodding at an obvious sore spot but… "Does Father know you're here?"

"No. Yes. I don't know."

Rory frowned. So she had left on her own without telling Father. "Why are you afraid of Alastair?"

Remy's shoulders tensed, and her chin went up, cold green eyes meeting his. "I'm not afraid of Alastair. I think he's very boring, actually."

"I think you're lying," Rory countered. "You came in here for a reason, and it wasn't because you were lonely."

Remy scowled at him. "I never knew I had such a nosy brother. All right then, tell me. Why did I come?"

 _In that nightgown?_ Rory swallowed. "Maybe it made you nervous, being in the room next to Alastair. Maybe you thought he'd visit you."

Her whole body slumped. "I knew no one would look for me here." Remy looked terribly tired, and much older than she should have. "You won't make me leave, will you?"

Rory wasn't sure if she was talking about his room tonight or the house in general. Either way, his answer was the same. "No, it's fine. You're my sister. I want you to be comfortable."

Remy smiled, and leaned towards him, as if she were going to whisper a secret. "You know, you're not the pathetic little boy you were pretending to be either." She kissed his forehead, and for a moment Rory saw her nipples through her nightgown. He flushed, trying to keep his expression unruffled as Remy pulled away and got underneath the covers.

"Good night, Rory." She curled up facing away from him, leaving the right side of the bed free.

_You're my sister._

_You're my sister._

_I want you to be comfortable.  
_

_I want…_

_I want you._

It took some time before he was able to lie down and manage anything like proper relaxation. Rory closed his eyes, but couldn't fall asleep. He was too aware of Remy's body next to him in the bed, the soft sound of her breathing (and occasional snore). He tossed and turned and couldn't relax.

When dawn broke, Rory gave up and went to his bathroom. Remy was stirring as he returned, with the kind of vague disorientation about her that suggested she hadn't yet remembered where she was.

"Did you sleep all right?" Rory asked.

She sat up, her hair a veritable bird's nest. "Actually, I did." Remy yawned. "Can I use your bathroom? I'm sure I stink."

"Yeah, there's a shower and tub." Rory hesitated. "Did you bring any toiletry supplies like soap or…"

Remy shook her head. "Too expensive. I'll just use yours. It's not like I haven't smelled like a man before."

He really didn't know what to make of that comment. "Okay. We can add that to the shopping list."

Remy took a much longer shower than Rory had. He was actually glad he could hear the water running-- if she had taken a bath that lasted this long, he might have barged in by now to make sure she wasn't drowning.

They probably didn't have showers at sea. Maybe Remy hadn't used one before, or at least wasn't used to it.

Then Rory realized that there weren't any clothes for her to change into.

He slipped out into the hall and, once he was sure no one was there, dashed up to the guest room where Remy had left her bags. Rory had hoped she hadn't done much unpacking so he could just carry her valise in and let her choose for herself, but no such luck.

So Rory rummaged through her wardrobe for a couple of dresses and, with a gulp, the first undergarments he could find. Remy only seemed to have the one pair of shoes, so he grabbed those too.

When he returned, out of breath and hoping none of the servants had seen him running around like an idiot with women's clothing, Remy was out of the shower, hair still wet, wearing nothing but one of Rory's button down shirts. She was looking at the spines of his books, and jumped when Rory opened the door.

"It's just me." Rory set down the clothes on the tangled sheets of his bed, dropping the shoes on the floor. "You, uh, probably don't want to go downstairs like that."

"Why not?" Rory's jaw dropped, and Remy laughed. "I'm joking."

His face burned. "R-right. I tried to give you different options, but some stuff might be missing. I don't know that much about women's fashion."

Remy blinked. "You didn't have to do that."

Rory shrugged. "Mother always takes a long time to decide what to wear, so I thought it was important."

"No, I mean you didn't have to do any of it." Much to Rory's confusion, Remy looked suspicious. "Why did you?"

"I don't know. To be nice." He hadn't calculated a particular outcome, which now that Rory thought about it was not his usual way of thinking.

The answer seemed to satisfy Remy, however. She crossed to the bed and Rory went to the bathroom to pee and give her some privacy. "Knock when you're done changing, okay?"

She didn't answer, so he just closed the door.

They agreed it would be best if they went down to breakfast separately. Rory left first, heading to the kitchen, while Remy went to her own room once she'd selected a blue dress.

Cook was making frittatas and sausage, neither of which really needed a second pair of hands, but Rory was happy to taste test herbs, vegetables and the fresh ham. He was almost happy enough to forget he even had a sister.

When he reluctantly emerged into the dining room, Alastair was sitting between Mother and Remy, saying, "I always have such restful nights here. I do hope Remy feels the same."

Rory gritted his teeth as Remy sweetly replied, "Oh, yes. I slept like a baby."

"I must admit I thought babies were fussy creatures," Alastair remarked, to Rory's great annoyance. "It seems a very foolish saying."

"Well, all babies are different," Mother said diplomatically. She brushed Rory's hair behind his ear as he sat down next to her. "Rory often woke in the middle of the night, but unless disturbed, Remy would sleep for hours. We tried separating them so Rory's crying wouldn't wake up Remy, but then Remy cried when she woke without her brother next to her."

"It was probably cold," Remy murmured, cutting into her sausage.

"Oh no, I think you missed him. Children do grow attached so quickly." Mother sighed, and squeezed Rory's hand.

After breakfast, Mother asked Rory if he would prefer to escort Remy to the marketplace or come with her to the salon as usual. Rory pretended to consider both options though his mind was already made up, so as not to hurt Mother's feelings.

"Pay careful attention so you don't get lost, and don't tarry too long," Mother advised, adjusting his collar the way she had since Rory was small. "I want you both back before dark."

Remy's delight at the market struck Rory as quite genuine. She pulled on his sleeve and pointed to this and that, and pleaded to stop at the perfume shop though it wasn't on their list.

"We don't have the money to buy anything from them," Rory reminded her.

"We'll see about that." Remy dragged him inside (he wasn't really resisting).

There was a boy inside who greeted them and offered to show Remy samples of their latest creations. He was taller, maybe a few years older, with curly dark hair and a bearing that suggested confidence-- probably the owner's nephew, Rory thought sourly.

Remy smiled, and thanked the boy, and asked his name (Johan, not that Rory was listening) and followed him around the shop, asking questions and exclaiming over how wonderful everything was, and left Rory standing alone by the entrance. She didn't need to tell Johan that Rory was her brother.

"You're very pretty, Miss Remy," Johan said, and Remy blushed. "A beauty like you should have her pick of scents. Here, let me give you some, free of charge."

"Oh, I couldn't!" Remy gasped. "You're far too generous!" And yet when they finally left the shop, Remy had a little box of all her favorites, and Rory hadn't laid out a single coin.

"I guess you think you're very clever," Rory muttered.

"Don't sulk," Remy swatted his arm. "We didn't spend any of your money, did we? I had that idiot eating out of my hand."

"Johan," Rory said, but he felt a bit better.

"Whatever his name was."

Now Rory smiled. "When we get to the cobbler's, let me do the talking."

Rory knew the cobbler's wife well. When they entered the shop, Rory greeted Gilda warmly, and received a hug and affectionate hair ruffle in return.

"It's been so long!" Gilda cried, as always, and Rory laughed, as always. He introduced his dear long lost sister and explained that she had tragically been deprived of a proper pair of shoes. In the process, he happened to mention some of his more recent baking projects and how his dear mother was doing. And oh, how flattering Gilda's new hairstyle was, and how he hoped her pet cockatoo was doing well and oh, he hoped he wasn't being too forward!

"Dear sweet boy," Gilda said fondly. "I hope you never change, Rory, and are always the sweet little boy my husband used to bounce on his knee. How could I ever make your sister pay for a pair of good, sensible shoes? Though of course, she should have a set for grand events and church. No woman should ever have to own less than two pairs of good shoes!"

"Oh, you're much too generous!" Rory exclaimed. "We can't let you do a thing like that!"

When they left the shop, Remy had four new pairs of shoes, and their purse was still full.

"So, I guess your shy woodland creature act's good for something after all." Remy grinned. "How many of these old ladies have you got in your pocket?"

"They're not _old ladies_ ," Rory said, but he grinned back anyway.

They did pay for some things. There were people who were charmed by the Dubois twins but not charmed enough to forget about the bottom line. And of course, people who were just not interested.

Still, by the time they got back home, there was a decent amount of coin left over to divide between them. Rory gave Remy a little bit more than her share, since he wasn't hurting for pocket money.

Alastair had gone home, and didn't return for weeks. In the meantime, Remy continued to go out with Rory most days, and sleep next to him most nights. Rory showed her around the city, and Remy occasionally let slip tidbits about her old life. She was very popular in pubs, where she knew every drinking song and the rules to every card game.

Men always seemed to like Remy, which was peculiar because women almost never took to her. Remy never remarked on it, but Rory, who had spent most of his life around women, was keenly aware of their disapproval.

He could sort of understand why this was. What registered to the men as adorable shyness was perceived by the women as sullen unfriendliness. And indeed, Remy's performances had more feeling around a rougher crowd. It was almost as though she genuinely didn't know what to say to other girls her age.

Rory was well aware that his usual demeanor didn't play well to the average man on the street, and as such was used to being more or less himself in predominantly male company. But Remy didn't seem to know how to turn the artifice off unless it was just the two of them. And then she would sprawl out like a boy on the sofa and drawl, "I'm so bored. You should entertain me, Rory."

When Remy decided she was bored, things became difficult. Sometimes she'd throw things at him, or make outrageous comments to get a rise out of him.

Or sometimes she'd just get up and leave for hours.

Remy often undressed in front of him, to Rory's mortification. He always tried to avoid looking at her, and Remy always laughed when she noticed his blush.

"Does it bother you?" she asked once, in nothing but a slip that did little to conceal her thighs. "Really?"

"Yes," Rory said firmly, eyes trained on the dresser behind her. "I wish you wouldn't do it in front of me. It's not… decent."

Something in her voice hardened. "No one else complained."

That shook him. Rory caught a glimpse of her face, smooth as steel, before she turned to the wall.

After Remy finished changing, Rory asked, quietly, "Did you want to?"

He didn't think he'd ever forget the look on her face, the fear mixed with anger and something like betrayal. "What are you talking about?" It didn't really sound like a question.

"Whoever you used to undress in front of. Did you want to, or did they make you?"

Remy swallowed, visibly. "They didn't make me. They didn't put a hand on me. I couldn't leave, so I did it to make them open the door again."

Rory frowned. "They let you out once you'd taken your clothes off?"

"Sometimes." She looked away. "They didn't always have the door locked. It just made them like me more if I was bold. Once I stopped whining about it, we were all friends. I learned a lot from them."

"Do you really believe that?" It came out before Rory could stop himself. It just made him so angry, hearing his proud sister refuse to admit she'd been taken advantage of. "How many of them were there?"

Remy's chin went up. "Oh, many. I've always been very popular with men. They couldn't keep their hands off me."

"That's not what you said before," Rory countered. "Either way, it sounds horrible, and I'm glad you left them because I hate them, all of them, whoever they were."

Remy laughed, in that harsh hollow way he already hated. "You hate them? Are you jealous, because they had the guts to do what you only fantasize about?"

Rory's stomach dropped. "That's not… no, of course not! I would never do that to you, never! I hate them because they obviously hurt you!"

"They hurt me, and I let them," Remy snapped. "Whatever pathetic little damsel you're imagining, that wasn't me. I used them and when I didn't have a use for them any more I left. And Father never even noticed at all, because he's been at the bottom of a bottle for ten years, and I only mattered to him when he'd run out of things to gamble with. There, is that honest enough for you?"

He wanted to run out of the room, to make sure she didn't see the tears threatening to well up in his eyes. But the last thing Rory wanted to do was be another person who failed Remy.

Instead, he said, "I'm proud of you."

That stopped her. Remy's fists unclenched, and she looked at him with a different expression. "Why?"

"Because you survived."

A million different thoughts seemed to run across Remy's face. She opened her mouth several times as if to speak, then thought better of it and bit her lip, again and again.

"I don't understand you!" she finally exclaimed.

Before he could react, Rory was seized by the collar. Remy pressed her nose against his. "What do you want?" she whispered. "Why won't you tell me what you want?"

Rory swallowed. Her breath was hot on his face. "Because I don't know." _Yet_.

Remy didn't like to go to their mother's salon, usually. She said she found it stifling and boring, though Rory suspected she just didn't know what to do with herself and was afraid of their mother's friends not liking her. So when Rory went, he went alone.

Rory had no idea what Remy did with herself on days he spent at the salon. He rather suspected he didn't want to know. In any case, she never seemed out of coin.

Now his voice had settled, Rory sang while his mother played piano forte, which he hadn't done since he was a small child. The familiarity of it calmed him, even if some of the songs had to be transposed to a different key.

One afternoon Remy found him practicing a new song that suited his current range. "You aren't very good, are you?"

Stung, Rory retorted, "Because you know so much about music?"

Remy smiled, without affection. "I know that boys that look like you are usually castrated before they become men to keep their voices from deteriorating. Isn't it too bad we don't live in Verone?"

That was the first time that Rory struck his sister.

He realized, later, that no one took a blow that calmly who hadn't been hit before.

But in the moment, he felt oddly detached from himself. It was as if Rory was looking at Rory looking at Remy, who stared back at him with cold eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, faintly.

"Don't bother," said Remy, and spun on her heel and walked out.

She stopped sleeping in Rory's room after that. Rory didn't quite dare to broach the subject. In fact, he scarcely could bring himself to speak to her at all, he was so ashamed. It was the longest they had gone without speaking to each other since their sixteenth birthday.

Even Mother noticed.

"Darling," she said mildly, petting Rory's hair as he laid his head in her lap, "you shouldn't fight with your sister. I know she's different from you, and you aren't used to sharing, but it's part of growing up."

Rory frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Compromising. You can't always have your way. Neither can Remy, of course, but I think she's a little more used to that than you are."

Sometimes, Rory wondered if Mother wasn't more perceptive than he gave her credit for.

He realized soon after that that if he didn't make an attempt, Remy never would. And as much as he wasn't looking forward to her reaction to his second apology, he liked the gap between them widening even less

Rory knocked on her door.

"Who is it?"

He swallowed. "Rory."

"Come in."

Remy was sitting at a desk he didn't recognize, flipping through one of his books. "I knew it was you," she said, failing to come off as properly disinterested, "because she never knocks."

"Does that mean you forgive me?"

Remy shrugged, still not looking at him. "I said it to make you angry. It's who I am."

Rory stared at her. "Remy, it doesn't matter! I should never have hit you! There's no excuse for hitting a lady, ever."

"Then isn't it lucky for you that I'm not a lady?"

Rory clenched his teeth. "That isn't what I meant, and you know it. I wish you wouldn't say things like that."

Remy finally met his eyes. "You really do, don't you?"

"I said I'd be honest with you." His stomach squirmed, even though he wasn't lying, not really. Not at the moment. "I really am sorry. I feel awful about it."

Remy let her head fall back and her torso arch. She was just stretching, just cracking her neck, which was a perfectly natural movement, but for a moment Rory's eyes lingered on her chest, accentuated by the seemingly unconscious motion.

"I'll forgive you," she said, sliding down to recline in her chair, "if you stop apologizing."

It was a long, hot summer.

Rory might have asked Remy to borrow one of her perfumes to hide the stink of sweat, but she made enough jabs about his masculinity as it was. Instead, he took a lot of cold showers.

He might have taken a lot of cold showers anyway, with the cut of the thin dresses his sister wore, and the way she'd throw her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek in public.

"I'm so glad to be living here in Ivore," Remy would say, curled up against his side on a park bench, watching children play in the fountain before their parents dragged them out. "There were countries I visited where women had to be covered up, no matter how hot it was outside. Imagine being covered head to toe in a desert! I think I'd go insane."

"Let's go in," Rory said, changing the subject for fear that she'd remind him more of the amount of skin she liked to bare. "There's a cafe near here where we can cool off."

Remy made a face. "Indoors, where there's no wind?"

Rory squeezed her hand. "Trust me, I know a few things about hot summers. I _have_ lived here my entire life."

It was a trick that seemed odd if you hadn't tried it. Rory had forgotten who it was that first suggested it to whom, but in any case he had often sat with his mother and her friends in the salon, drinking hot tea until sweat made the air seem less unbearable.

"I guess you're worth something," Remy observed. Before Rory could take offense, she bumped her foot against his and gave him the weird little almost smile he'd begun to realize meant she was genuinely happy.

" _You're welcome_ , Remy," Rory said, pointedly, but the effect of the intended lesson was probably spoiled by his own grin.

Remy laughed, and plucked a sugar cube from the bowl.

"You're supposed to use the little spoon, that's what it's there for," Rory said, watching her rub the cube between her thumb and forefinger, letting the granules spill onto her plate.

"You put so much sugar in your tea," Remy said, as if he had not spoken. "Does it make it taste better?"

"Well, obviously I think so." The pot they were sharing was almost empty, it seemed a bit late to try something different.

"I suppose if I kissed you I'd find out."

Rory choked on his tea. _"What?!"_

"It's like perfume for the mouth," Remy said, as if they were discussing whom to invite for dinner.

Rory just gaped at her.

"Oh, stop that. You look like a fish. Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

Rory swallowed his annoyance. "I don't know why you say things like that. How do you expect me to react?"

Remy shrugged, looking at the shrinking sugar cube. "It's just a joke. Besides, you look cute when you get all flustered."

For once, Rory wished his face didn't show color so easily. "I'm not cute," he muttered, though he would have allowed it from an adult.

Remy smiled, and blew him a kiss. "My dear, adorable little brother."

With Remy, that sort of day was a good day.

When Mother had visitors to dinner, it was far less likely to be a good day.

Alastair came around from time to time, sometimes with his sister Sophia, who was a frequent and enthusiastically gossipy patron of Mother's salon. Remy was always sweet and engaging in front of the guests, and often flirted with Alastair.

Then afterwards, Remy would tell Rory in great detail about how much she hated them all. And if he didn't listen entirely patiently, she would tell him he was being a hideous goody-two-shoes and leave the house for hours at a time.

The first time that happened, Rory burst into tears when she returned. "Where were you? I was so worried! I thought something horrible might have happened to you!"

To his surprise, she seized a bookend and hurled it at the wall. "Stop that! Stop that _right now!_ Don't you dare cry! I know you're lying, I always know when you're lying and I can't stand your pathetic little whining _face!"_

Shocked into silence, Rory wiped away his tears. "I didn't mean to lie. I really was worried." He had made himself cry, though.

 _"You make me sick!"_ Remy screamed. "Humiliating yourself like that!"

Rory stared at her. How was he humiliating himself? It was just an expression of distress. He was distressed, he cried, he… usually got what he wanted. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… I just wanted you to look at me again. You've been treating me like a stranger all day." He almost added 'and I haven't done anything wrong' but realized in time that was far too accusatory.

"Why would I ever want to look at a _crying,_ _whining_ baby?" Remy's face twisted as she spat at him, her shoulders shaking, her mouth constantly moving as if she were trying to eat her own words. "What kind of pathetic little girl mewls for attention whenever things aren't going exactly her way? Did you think I was going to gasp, and pet your hair and hold you tight like mama? Did you think I was going to dry your pretty little tears and tie the pretty little sash of your pretty little dress?"

 _"I am not a girl!"_ Rory shouted, his hand flying out before he could stop himself. He thought that he didn't hit her very hard, or at least that he didn't hit her as hard as before, because she didn't budge one inch.

Remy smiled, still shaking, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Good. That's honest. Stay honest. I don't want your sad little lip wobbling routine. I know you don't like me. I know you think I'm… _indecent_ , and I'm not the sister you wanted at all. Well, maybe you're not the brother I wanted either. How does that make _you_ feel?"

Rory was so surprised, he actually forgot to be angry. "But that isn't true."

"You really think you're such a prize, that I would want a brother who-" Remy began, heatedly, but he cut her off.

"No, I mean, I do like you. I really do." Rory looked at her, and he knew, he really knew, that he had just been so angry with her that he had wanted to hurt her, but he also knew that the very idea of Remy not being there was intolerable. And that she had made him so, so very unhappy, and yet he had never known such blissful torment until she walked through that front door. "I _really_ like you." His cheeks colored, but he made himself go on. "And just because you do things that are… that I don't always feel comfortable with, that doesn't make you a bad person. And you aren't the sister I expected, but I'm really… I'm so glad that you're here because you're real, and the sister I expected wasn't.

Remy stared at him. Rory realized that she really, truly had thought that he hated her.

And then suddenly she threw herself at him, nearly knocked him over with the force of her barreling into his chest and hugging him-- well, not so much hugging him as clinging for dear life, like she was a drowning person and he was a life preserver. Rory gingerly put his arms around her, and she was still shaking almost violently, and so Rory tightened his grip on her, and just stood there, in silence, as her breaths grew more and more steady.

He thought, faintly, that maybe things would be better now. That Remy and him had turned some sort of corner.

It was true, and it wasn't.

Remy began sleeping in Rory's room again. She wouldn't play odd games with him, just come in, sometimes with an additional pillow from her bed, and bounce on the bed like a little girl and burrow under the covers with him and fall asleep almost immediately. It was considerably more difficult for Rory to sleep with her next to him, but he never dreamed of telling her to leave.

And then when Alastair would come to visit and stay the night, then Remy would be even more affectionate and lay her head on his shoulder and say, "I'm safe with you, Rory."

Those nights Rory often slept curled around her protectively.

One particular evening, Alastair, Sophia, and Sophia's paramour Emiline arrived for a dinner Rory and Cook had planned for weeks. Rory was excited, but Remy was in poor spirits.

"How alike they are," Emiline remarked, as Remy curtsied. "You'd never know they hadn't grown up side by side."

Remy smiled, in the way that meant danger. "Appearances can be deceiving."

She was unusually (at least, for company) standoffish throughout the first course. Rory could feel her next to him growing more tense and angry each time the ladies talked over her in conversation.

It was an odd remark that caused Remy to throw down her napkin and stalk away from the table. To Rory, it seemed perfectly innocuous, so much so that he never quite remembered it later. It had been, he thought, a compliment, albeit one from Alastair.

They sat in bemused silence, long enough to hear the front door slam.

"Oh, dear," Mother said with a sigh. "She can be surprisingly willful. There's no reasoning with Remy when she's in a mood. Better we not look for her just yet. She'll come back in her own time."

"Does this happen often, then?" Alastair frowned. "I hadn't thought her to be so unsociable."

"It comes of bad breeding," Emiline said, her lips curled in a smug smile that made Rory wish he'd burned her trout. "Not that it's your fault of course, Catherine dear. That loutish husband of yours clearly knew nothing about how to manage a daughter."

"Darling, you mustn't be so harsh," Sophia said, clearly rather taken aback. "You've only met the girl this once. She's always been nothing but attentive and good tempered in my presence. And little Rory dotes on her."

"Do you?" Emiline gave him an appraising look. "She does put most of her energy into charming the opposite sex. If you ask me, unswerving devotion isn't what a girl like that needs."

"A girl like what, exactly?" Everyone turned to look at Rory, who was clenching his fists underneath the table. "If you're going to turn up your nose at her when she isn't here to defend herself, you might as well say what you're thinking instead of hinting at it."

Emiline regarded him coldly. Rory knew she didn't think much of him either now, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "A spoiled sluttish brat."

"Sophia, you know I love you dearly, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask your companion to leave," Mother said, loudly and firmly. Rory, halfway out of his chair, froze. "You may accompany her out if you wish. I cannot allow such language in my home, particularly regarding my only daughter."

Sophia nodded silently, standing and offering her arm to Emiline. Emiline seemed not a whit troubled, and went without protest.

"I apologize," Alastair said evenly, after the two women had been escorted out. "Emiline can be prickly at the best of times, but I did not imagine she would lower herself in such a fashion. Bad breeding indeed."

"Remy isn't spoiled," Rory said, too angry to keep silent. "And she isn't a slut."

"Of course not," Mother and Alastair said, more or less in succession.

Rory stayed angry, enough so that Mother politely suggested that he might be happier making it an early night. He took the opportunity, and raced up to Remy's room. There were things there that he knew she loved, like her hair ribbons and the perfume samples. But did she love them enough not to leave without them?

An hour later, Remy came back. She walked unsteadily, her face pale, not looking at Rory.

This time, Rory didn't cry, or speak at all.

"Those bitches loved you, didn't they?" Remy's light tone was at considerable odds with her word choice, and the way her fingers gripped the bedpost.

"Not really," Rory said. "You don't look so good. What were you doing out there?"

"None of your-" Remy doubled over, and Rory sprung up, reaching her just in time to pull her hair back from her face as she retched on the carpet.

Remy had a moment to choke out "I never liked this carpet any-" before she was vomiting again, one hand on her stomach as she gasped for breath.

"Don't try to talk," Rory advised her, hands still in her long red hair. This was a mistake.

"Don't order me around!" Remy snarled, trying to pull away. "I'm _fine,_ you sad little shit!" She gagged, but with her hand over her mouth managed to keep it down.

Remy was far from a model patient. In between heaves, she spat insults at him, and muttered, "Don't tell me to calm down, I don't need to calm down, I never need to calm down" which Rory gave up on trying to engage with since he never suggested anything of the sort.

In fairness, Rory was no paragon of charity either. He didn't tell her to stop putting him down, but he was holding her hair, and sometimes he'd start pulling, not even realizing what he was doing until Remy said, "You're _hurting_ me."

"So are you," Rory returned.

"Oh, grow up."

After a while, Rory realized he was going to have to clean up the vomit, because every time Remy caught a whiff of it she'd start to gag again. He couldn't really blame her-- cleaning it up made _him_ want to hurl.

So then he was running back and forth cleaning everything and washing it and hoping none of the servants noticed because it was clear from the smell that Remy had been drinking. The one blessing was that throwing up made Remy so tired that she was losing the energy to verbally assault him.

Rory decided to go down to the kitchens for some toast and black tea. When he had a stomach virus or food poisoning, that was what Mother and Cook always fixed him. He knew it wasn't quite the same, but he figured it was worth a try.

He had just rounded a corner when he spotted Alastair, wearing a dressing gown and holding a candlestick.

Rory's anger flared up again. "You," he said, stalking towards the man, "you need to stay away from my sister."

Alastair looked politely bemused. "I wasn't aware I was bothering her."

"You think I don't know what you're doing, wandering the hallways at night?" Rory retorted. "You're trying to get into her room. Well, she doesn't want you there!"

The expression on Alastair's face was so nakedly surprised that it gave Rory pause. "What on earth are you talking about? Your sister is a child. I left my own room to visit your mother's."

Rory's stomach plummeted. "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't- I'm sorry."

Rory knew Alastair had never liked him, but he had never before received a look of such outright disgust from him. "The question is, boy, what are _you_ doing wandering the hallways at this hour?"

He could have told the truth, of course. It would have reflected well on Rory to do so. But he didn't think he could stand to hear anyone else dismiss Remy, who would look the poorer for her current situation. "None of your business!" he blurted out, and ran off to the kitchens.

When Rory returned, Remy had fallen asleep. She had obviously been trying to undress, but given up partway through and collapsed on top of the covers. He knew that, knew that her bare shoulder and unlaced bodice had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her own exhaustion.

But Rory's eye was still drawn to the innocently exposed flesh. He could see the hint of Remy's breasts, and she'd removed petticoats so the outline of her thighs was clear. Why was it that he found her even more arousing this way than when she was actually undressed in front of him?

And did it mean you were in love with someone if you'd just seen them vomit for hours, weren't actually sure that they'd finished rinsing out their mouth and still wanted to kiss them?

Remy was still dead to the world in the morning, and Rory didn't have the heart to try and wake her. After breakfast was over, Mother went up with him, concerned.

Rory had done his best to open windows and dabble bits of her perfume, but he could tell by the way Mother's nose wrinkled when she entered the room that his best hadn't been good enough.

"She'll sleep it off," Mother said finally, after ordering the maids not to disturb Remy.

When Remy did finally come downstairs, wearing fresh clothes but still looking somewhat haggard, Mother said evenly, "If you must indulge such an unladylike habit, I would prefer that you did so under this roof. You'll find we're more than adequately stocked."

Rory wasn't sure he felt the same way.

In any event, there wasn't a repeat of that specific episode. Possibly because it was now cold enough outside for snow and ice, or possibly because Remy was embarrassed by her loss of control, she did not excuse herself from any other dinner parties.

It was Rory now who spent more time out of doors, wandering from shop to shop and looking at the sea. Sometimes he felt like he forgot who he was when Remy was around, like they couldn't both exist as individual people in the same space.

He had generally always accepted that he was a good person. It wasn't difficult to accept, when everyone always said so. But then Remy had come along, and she hated herself, and Rory didn't believe for a moment that Remy was a bad person no matter what anyone said.

If you were bad, Rory thought, really bad, you wouldn't have to work at it. Remy wasn't _nice_ , but that wasn't the same as being _bad_.

Rory was nice, but he wasn't so sure that he was good.

Remy was cruel, hard, reckless, ruthless, and Rory had never loved anyone so much in his life.

For Mother's annual midwinter ball, the tailor was brought in to design new outfits. Rory was used to this, but Remy didn't seem familiar with the process of being fitted. She started whenever the tailor spoke from behind her, and had trouble keeping still, and when it was time for her to change, she gave Rory a nervous, almost pleading look.

It made him feel bad, but it wasn't as though Rory could protect Remy from danger that didn't exist. He met her eyes and jerked his chin in the direction of the screen she was supposed to go behind.

"Oh, of course," the tailor said pleasantly. "You two look so alike, I forget you aren't the same sex. Go into the next room, young master."

The color scheme for the ball was turquoise and lime green, so Mother, Rory and Remy were all dressed in it. At least, Rory assumed Mother was dressed in it, since he hadn't actually seen her gown yet. She was downstairs fussing over the arrangements, and usually Rory would have been downstairs as well, helping Cook, but Remy had been making a big show of looking forlorn by the window seat, so he didn't go.

Remy wrote her name on the filmy window with a finger. "I can't see anything through this misty stuff."

"You probably wouldn't be able to see anything anyway, it's too dark."

Remy made a face. "There are streetlamps and things, it's not as though we're out in the wild moors."

"You've never been out in the wild moors," Rory said, mainly to be annoying.

"Neither have you," she shot back, and pushed her nose up against the window.

Rory really wasn't sure why he was here. It wasn't as though she seemed to have much use for him. He hated feeling as though all his sister had to do was crook her finger to get him running. "Are you going to drink tonight?"

Remy shrugged, still focused on the window. "I don't know. My nose is freezing."

"Then take it off the window."

Remy made a frustrated little noise. "What is wrong with you, anyway? Why do you care if I drink or not? Maybe _you_ should try it. It might make you relax a little."

"I am relaxed," Rory muttered.

She laughed, unpleasantly. "Wouldn't it be funny if that were true? Ugh, I can't stand you when you're like this. Are you going to sulk through the entire party?"

"It's a ball."

"Oh, shut up!" Remy shoved him. Suddenly angry, Rory shoved back, harder.

"Good!" Remy swung her arm back to slap him, but it was such an exaggerated movement that Rory caught her wrist easily. She pulled hard, but then abruptly gave. "If you're going to hit me, you'd better not leave any marks. I don't think a black eye will go with Catherine's decor."

Rory went cold all over. He let go and leapt to his feet. "I am _not_ going to hit you. What's wrong with _you?_ Why can't you just have a conversation without it going all wrong?"

Remy shrugged, her eyes distant. "Because I'm all wrong. Don't worry, I'll shut up at the stupid party. I hate all of them anyway."

"You mean Mother's friends."

Remy's mouth tightened. "I mean all of them."

Rory opened his mouth, but before he could speak someone called, "Rory! You're wanted to help put out hors d'oeuvres!"

The ball was terrible. At least it was for Rory, though the guests seemed to enjoy themselves. It was unbearable, pretending to be meek and nervous but happy when he could see Remy, out of the corner of his eye, playing coy with tall handsome men.

After most of the guests had dwindled away, Rory helped Cook with the leftover food and garbage. Cook fussed over him, as usual, but Rory wasn't really paying attention.

Why, he thought, did Remy keep going after these men that had the power to hurt her when she had already been hurt so many times? Why was sex always on her mind if it had been used as a weapon against her?

Rory avoided her for the rest of the night. Evidently she got the message that he wasn't happy with her, because she didn't come to his room for bed.

Rory spent a lot of time with Cook in the kitchens the next few weeks, the way he had done before. If Cook thought it was odd that he wasn't going around with Remy now, there was no sign.

Did Remy miss him at all, Rory wondered. For all the affection she would shower on him when they weren't at odds with each other, he was the one who had gone out of his way to say that he cared. Did she even like him?

He didn't understand, and not understanding made him angry.

One afternoon Rory couldn't take it anymore, and stormed into Remy's room.

She was sprawled on the bed, playing with jewelry that Rory recognized as belonging to Mother. Remy jumped when the door slammed behind him, but made no move to hide the baubles.

"What are you doing?"

"Going to see the King, what does it look like?" Remy said sarcastically.

"Those aren't yours," Rory said shortly.

"I know that," Remy snapped. "I'll give them back in an hour. I just wanted to try them on."

Rory snorted, shaking his head.

Remy stiffened. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No, I'm not laughing at you," Rory snapped, raising his voice. "Why would I, when there's nothing funny about it? All you ever think about is yourself! It's always about you, isn't it? It's never about me, unless you're telling me how worthless and pathetic and _girly_ I am, because you're so damn manly, Remy! Well, you know what? There are hundreds of thousands of people, even men, who _never think about you_. You are nothing to them! You are absolutely _nothing_ , which I guess makes me worse than nothing, but at least I don't go around pushing people's buttons so they remember I exist! You don't have to be mean to be worth remembering! You don't have to _use_ people! But you do it anyway, because you're such a fucking _idiot_ you can't tell the difference between someone who's trying to help you and someone who's trying to hurt you!"

Rory couldn't bear to look at her. The only way he'd managed to get all of it out was by staring at his feet and clenching his fists so tightly they were shaking and throbbing.

"Waiting for me to cry?"

That got him to look. Remy met his eyes, her face hard and simmering with defiance. "You'll be waiting a long time. I'm not the girl that breaks down and begs for forgiveness. You knew what I was from the start."

"Alastair never laid a finger on you," Rory spat out.

Remy lifted her chin. "That's right."

Rory punched his own leg because he wasn't going to punch her, not this time. "If he didn't _do_ anything, then why were you afraid? Why are you always afraid when there's _nothing there?"_

"If you were me," Remy said quietly, "you wouldn't be so certain of the difference between shadows and ghosts either."

The tension seeped out of Rory. It was hard to stay mad when she wasn't denying a thing he said, hard to hold it against her when she was so horribly calm about her own tragedies.

"You will never be like me." Remy sat up, and got off the bed. "And you will never understand me."

That stayed with Rory, for days and days. Did Remy wish things had been the other way around? Did Remy pick on him because she was envious?

Rory remembered all too well this time last spring when he had thought of his then theoretical twin sister, and how lucky she must be to go on adventures and see different countries.

"I'm sorry," he said, later.

"For what?" But Remy seemed pleased anyway.

They turned seventeen together.

The birthday celebration was held at Mother's salon, since that was the way it had been planned for years by Rory and Mother, and Remy held no strenuous objections. Rory knew that Remy wasn't deeply fond of the ladies at the salon, and that they were less enamored of her than they were of him, so he did his best to look after her and keep her comfortable. This had the double effect of making everyone coo over how considerate and attentive a brother Rory was, which was certainly not a reputation Rory could complain about.

"A toast to the birthday boy and girl," proclaimed Lady Sophia. "May their seventeenth be even sweeter than their sixteenth!"

Mother had them sit for pictures, since daguerrotypes were the height of fashion now and Rory hadn't been painted in years. Remy, of course, had no memory of either. It took a long time, and Rory could feel how impatient Remy got sitting next to him.

"One of Rory, one of Remy, and one of the twins together of course. They grow up so fast!"

Champagne was poured, the finest kind from the west, which Rory could hardly politely refuse though he had disliked the few tastes he'd had of alcohol in the past. Remy of course graciously accepted, so, seeing the challenge in her eyes, Rory took a sip alongside her.

It wasn't as bad as he had thought it would be. Maybe the expensive stuff really was worth more. Before he knew it, Rory had finished his first flute and was accepting another.

The world seemed warmer, drinking champagne, surrounded by women he had known all his life and Remy. But in a way, hadn't he known Remy his whole life too? They were born together, and had been affectionate and close as children, even if Rory couldn't remember it.

When Rory went to the bathroom, he looked in the mirror and saw Remy's face.

"You know," Rory said, "some people believe twins are lovers who couldn't be together in their last lifetime. Do you believe in that sort of thing?"

Remy didn't answer.

He was never sure, afterwards, if he'd really only said it to the mirror or if Remy had heard him.

At any rate, Rory was too frightened to ask. He went down to the kitchens again to learn more from Cook, even though it was another hot summer and nowhere was hotter than standing by an oven baking cupcakes.

Remy was sleeping next to Rory at night again, but aside from mornings and evenings, they weren't seeing so much of each other. Remy went out most of the day to do whatever it was she did in town, and Rory practiced different kinds of frosting and decoration until he was proud enough that he decided to make a batch for the salon. Remy clearly needed her space, and had never much liked the salon anyway, so Rory went on his own.

The little candied flowers and buttercream frosting were a hit. Lady Sophia proclaimed that she'd never seen such pretty looking cupcakes, and Lady Antoinette said that even the palace didn't have cupcakes that tasted as good as they looked.

It should have felt more exciting than it did. Rory smiled as they ate his cupcakes, but all he kept seeing were the empty plates he took away each time someone finished

For now, they were happy, but how long would that last? It was food, meant to be eaten. The very mark of his success was that there was nothing left for him to admire, nothing to be proud of but the memory of their compliments.

Rory was on his way back upstairs after helping wash the dishes when he saw Lady Bianca standing behind one of the ferns. She grinned, and pulled the gilt fan from her wrist, opening it with her left hand.

Rory hadn't had the opportunity to learn all the intricacies of the language of the fan, but he knew that she meant for him to come and talk to her. Somewhat intrigued, he went.

Lady Bianca was one of the more recent patrons of Mother's salon, and she was far better placed at court than most. With this in mind, Rory approached her carefully.

"My aunt tells me you've just had your seventeenth birthday," Lady Bianca said, twirling one of her blonde curls around her finger. "Such an interesting age. You're practically grown up."

Lady Bianca's aunt, Rory knew, was the rather matronly Lady Beatrice, who he had often sung for as a child. Lady Bianca looked as though she could have been Lady Beatrice's granddaughter. "That couldn't have been so long ago for you," Rory said innocently. Actually asking her age was rude, but taking a guess could be even ruder if one guessed older than the truth.

Lady Bianca pouted. "Very cheeky! There's a world of difference between twenty-three and seventeen. Girls become women, boys become men."

There was something uncomfortable about this conversation, but Rory couldn't figure out a way to end it. "Well," he said, twisting his fingers with his hand, "I wouldn't really know. My sister's more mature than me and we were born on the same day."

Lady Bianca smiled, and drew her fan across her cheek. "I don't think you're so very immature, Rory Dubois."

She was much, much closer than Rory wanted her to be. "Um," he said, blushing and trying to back away in the politest possible way, "I'm really not- I mean, that's very generous of you but I- don't you think we should get back? Everyone will be wondering-"

Lady Bianca seized Rory's hand and guided it to her breast. Rory's face and ears (and some other parts of him) went hot. No need to pretend to be flustered, this came naturally. "Lady Bianca! W-what are you trying to do?"

"You're so adorable," she breathed. "Are you really still a virgin?"

"None of your business!" Rory blurted out, pulling away. "I'm… I'm going back now, and I'm going to pretend this never happened and I'd like it if you did too. Sorry."

The moment he returned to the salon, Rory wondered why he'd apologized. Why should he be sorry? He hadn't done a thing to lead her on. Even stranger, the more embarrassed he got, the more excited she had been.

Did people really find it that easy to confuse reluctance with eagerness? Or was it the very idea of persuading Rory to do something against his will that piqued Lady Bianca's interest?

Remy wasn't like that. She never grabbed Rory or got handsy with anyone that he could see.

And he did see, sometimes, even when he was trying not to. Rory went to market one afternoon, looking for apples and pears, and heard Remy laughing.

He spun around, and saw she wasn't laughing at him, but at something that stupid fop Johan was saying to her. They were standing very close, not enough to be improper, but enough that someone might mistake them for sweethearts, especially when Remy brushed a dark curl out of Johan's eye.

Rory turned back to the harvest fruits and vegetables, his eyes stinging.

It was the season for pie now, so Rory rose to the occasion, with Cook's encouragement. He baked apple pie, trying not to think of the way red apples crunched when Remy bit into them, and ground up pecans and sugar for pecan pie, which he'd never tried before but was a recipe Cook had gotten from a foreigner.

Mother loved the pies, and insisted Rory bring them to the salon. Somewhat reluctantly, Rory agreed.

When he was carrying them up to the salon, Rory nearly walked into Remy. She gave him a blank look that lasted just a little too long to be convincingly uninterested.

"I liked the spices," she said finally. "I never had apple pie that tasted like that before."

"Thank you," Rory said softly.

The ladies at the salon loved the pies, asking Rory over and over again to send the recipes to their own bakers. Rory demurred each time, knowing that if he had even one good recipe no one else knew how to recreate it would be the start of something he could sell.

There were more young women around Rory's age at the salon than there used to be. Or at least, Rory hadn't noticed there were young women before, since he had been even younger then.

Lady Bianca was not there, as she had reportedly only been visiting for a short amount of time, but in her place there was the doe-eyed Lady Violet, the giggling Lady Suzette, the standoffish Lady Ceridwen and her more personable sister Lady Syrah.

Rory figured it would be rude to ignore them, but he had no idea how he was supposed to introduce himself (when he was younger, Mother would have done it for him) so he settled for smiling whenever there was inadvertent eye contact. This set Lady Suzette off into another peal of giggling, made Lady Violet blush, and elicited no reaction from Lady Ceridwen, though Lady Syrah grinned back.

The older ladies were settling into their usual routines, sitting down and speaking with each other as if Rory wasn't there, which he was all right with. He was just cutting another slice of pecan pie for Lady Antoinette when he felt someone come up from behind him.

Rory turned, carefully, and came face to face with Lady Violet. She smiled, a bit sheepishly. "We've all been daring each other to come over and talk to you. It was getting silly, so here I am."

"Oh," Rory said, eloquently. He thought he should probably be blushing, but she seemed embarrassed enough for both of them. Rory glanced over and saw Lady Syrah and Lady Suzette pretending not to stare. "Well, now that you're here, what do you want to talk about?"

"The pie's really good," Lady Violet said fervently. "I can't believe you made it all by yourself. I wish I knew how to do things like that."

"Oh, I didn't really do it by myself," Rory said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Our cook's wonderful. She taught me everything I know."

"Still! My parents would never even let me learn to make my own clothes." Lady Violet sighed. "You're so lucky, having opportunities like that."

It occurred to Rory that this was the first time he'd really gotten to talk to a girl his own age who wasn't his sister. It was slightly terrifying, not having a real idea of what she wanted from him, but it was kind of interesting all the same. He never would have bothered approaching someone like Lady Violet (who clearly came from money, to judge by her coiffed lilac hair and glittering earrings) and the relative low stakes of the conversation surprised him.

After listening to Lady Violet's grievances with her parents for a little while, and her apologies for airing said grievances, Rory returned to the pie and Lady Violet returned to her friends.

It wasn't so bad, being thought of as someone exciting and mysterious.

Lady Syrah approached him later, sidling around the buffet table. "Wherever did you come from, Rory Dubois?" She drew out his name like it was something to be savored, in a manner not unlike Lady Bianca.

"I've been here this whole time," Rory returned, stuffing away his anxiety. "Where did _you_ come from, Lady Syrah?"

He half-expected her to be annoyed, but instead she laughed. "Fair's fair! I've been out at finishing school the last few years. Expected to be engaged by now, really, but Ceri takes precedence, and she's been keeping all the men to herself since I returned. She's terribly selfish. Tell me you won't let her have you too?"

Her tone was so playful, Rory found it hard not to want to play along. "I don't think your sister can be very nice. She's barely looked at me this entire afternoon. So far, you're coming out ahead."

Lady Syrah grinned. "You've just become the most attractive boy I know. Don't tell me, you've got some dreadful secret that will only come out once we've married."

Rory's gut twisted. "You've caught me," he said, forcing himself to laugh. "I only drink virgin blood." Why had he said that?

Lady Syrah put her hand to her forehead in mock distress. "It is so very taxing to be a virgin as a crone of nineteen. You'll help me, won't you?"

Rory's ears were already starting to burn, but he was sick of blushing and so he met her eyes and said the first thing he could imagine Remy saying in his place. "All right. How's your schedule next week? Are you very busy, or could you... fit me in?"

She let out a shocked giggle, and flushed. "I, ah, I'm very flattered but oh, I think my sister wants me."

And just like that, she was off, back to her giggling friends.

Rory couldn't believe he'd actually talked like that, but the more he thought about it the more he realized he'd enjoyed it. It was good, being the one who got to control the conversation.

Maybe this was how Remy felt around men.

It was a hard winter. Blizzard after blizzard swept in, keeping most people indoors, afraid to brave the snow and wind and cold.

"Not baking today?"

Rory shook his head. Remy was on the sofa, leaving through a book of poetry he knew wasn't hers. "I don't want to send anyone out for ingredients in this weather. I feel bad enough someone's going for our regular meals."

"And here I thought you were hoping for the pleasure of my company," Remy said dryly.

Rory rolled his eyes and sat across from her. "You must be disappointed, not getting out to see all your friends." It came out a little more sarcastic than he'd intended.

"What friends?"

"Oh, come on. The people you're always seeing. Like Johan, the perfume clerk, you're always talking to him."

Remy closed the book. "It's a way to pass the time. I don't actually like them. Is that boy's name really _Johan?_ I thought it was just Jean."

"Do you flirt with everyone you don't like?" Rory hadn't meant to sound accusatory, but the words slipped out. "I don't believe you go out of your way to see people that don't please you."

Remy shrugged. "I never said he was ugly. He's just very, very boring."

"I don't understand how you can find someone you're attracted to boring," Rory said sourly.

"Sex doesn't always have to do with love, you know." Remy smiled, though it didn't touch her eyes. "Not even usually. They didn't legalize brothels so people could get married."

"Well, what about the others? You can't be bored by every man you meet."

"You'd be surprised," Remy yawned.

They sat in silence for a little while. "Do you find me boring?" Rory asked, quietly.

Remy gave him a long look that Rory couldn't read at all. "No," she said finally, averting his eyes.

Things were better after that. Everyone started going to bed early for lack of things to do, and so Rory and Remy would lie awake for hours, talking about this and that.

"I tried flirting with this one girl," Rory admitted. "I don't know if it really went well, but it was interesting."

"Mmm." Remy shifted next to him. "Did you go all shy and sheltered babe in the woods on her?"

Rory swatted at her. _"No_. I might have come on a little stronger than I should have, actually."

Remy laughed, her real laugh. "I'd like to see that."

He swallowed. "Someone did come on to me before that, though. It was creepy, like she thought I was a little kid and liked it."

Rory felt Remy tense beside him. "Who?"

"Nobody. Lady Bianca something or other. I haven't seen her since."

To his surprise, Remy rolled over and wrapped her arm around him, nuzzling her face into his neck. He thought he might have actually stopped breathing for a second. "Good. If anyone ever does anything like that to you again, they'll be sorry."

He couldn't have been more aware of her body against his, her breath on his neck, the smell of her hair. In that moment Rory honestly didn't know if he was happy or miserable. "Why?" he managed.

Her fingers dug into his arm. "Because I'll hurt them," Remy said fiercely. 

Rory went to the bathroom as soon as she fell asleep.

Sometimes they played cards with Mother. Remy didn't know a lot of the card games that Rory and Mother played, but picked up the rules fairly quickly.

"All the games I know are for coin," Remy said matter-of-factly, after Mother had gone upstairs.

That rung a faint bell in Rory's head. "Is that how you get all the money you have?"

"Gambling, you mean?" Remy smiled. "Some of it. Down at the pubs a pretty face's a welcome sight. Sometimes they're so distracted by my face they don't notice my fast hands."

Rory blinked. "You pick pockets?"

"Only when I don't win." Rory frowned, and Remy made an impatient noise. "Oh please, it's not so different from what you do, you lousy hypocrite. You leave shops with things you didn't pay for all the time."

"Because the owner gave them to me!"

"It's still theft."

Rory sighed. "All right, maybe it isn't so different. It just seems… crass, somehow."

Remy's mouth tightened in a hard line. "It's how I got off the ship. If I didn't steal the money, I would have never gotten here on my own."

He didn't really know what to say to that.

Remy fidgeted at the silence. "Don't look at me like a kicked puppy. It's just the truth."

Rory crossed his arms. "Are you good at it?"

"Of course I am! I haven't gotten caught, have I?"

"Then be careful," Rory retorted. "I don't want to know what happens if you do get caught."

The color theme for Mother's annual midwinter ball was black and gold. Rory helped tie the gold ribbon in Remy's hair, and she pinned his boutonnière, a yellow primrose.

"You don't look half bad," Remy said, as Rory brushed her hair out.

A smile tugged at the corner of Rory's mouth. "You don't look half bad either."

They went downstairs arm-in-arm, to Mother's delight. Whether this was because she was pleased they were on good terms again or because they cut a pretty picture, Rory would never know.

When they reached the foyer, Remy leaned in and kissed Rory's cheek. Time stood still for a moment, and Rory knew nothing but the hot press of her mouth against his skin and the smell of the sweet gardenia perfume she had put on for the occasion.

When she pulled away and smiled, her arm slipping out of his, Rory was still in a daze. Even after Remy had evaporated into a crowd of tall men, the scent lingered.

Perhaps it was the scent that spurred him on. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was wearing a present from Johan. In any case, Rory turned the other way and began to flirt with the first girl that came his way.

He still didn't know what he was doing, really. He tried all sorts of approaches through the evening; the goofy, the intense, the sincere, the sleazy. Some people Rory charmed, some politely excused themselves, and some didn't bother with politeness.

In between conversations, Rory looked for Remy. Often he spotted her (their red hair was particularly distinctive against a sea of black and gold) playing the awestruck maiden, or sometimes the serene worldly traveler, to a captivated audience of young men.

Young men came Rory’s way as well, in fewer numbers but with no less enthusiasm. Rory was mildly surprised, particularly by how confident they appeared in comparison to the girls of their age. Still, he followed their lead, as it made little difference to him in the long run. He had no intention of further association with any of these strangers, regardless of sex.

“How is it that I’ve seen your sister at Baptiste’s and not you?” questioned a fair-haired man (who had introduced himself as Ambrose) his tone puzzled but not accusatory. “In the smoking parlor at that.”

“I don’t smoke,” Rory deflected. “Remy’s very popular with the men.”

“I imagine you’d be just as popular, if you put your mind to it.”

Rory recognized the flirtation. “Well, I’ve always had a good work ethic.” Ambrose laughed. Encouraged, Rory added, “I’ve never been to Baptiste’s, though. It’s hard getting out to new places when it’s freezing.”

Ambrose smiled. “But well worth the effort.”

Rory smiled back. “Especially if there’s someone waiting to warm you up.” Oh god, had he taken it too far?

Ambrose’s surprise only lasted a moment before breaking into a grin that showed he was as young as Rory. Rory really thought Ambrose was going to kiss him then (and what would Remy make of _that?_ ) but instead he received a quick peck on the cheek. “Well, if you find yourself lonely and catching a chill, Baptiste’s serves a truly invigorating cider. And I happen to be staying at the inn next door.”

No girl ever dared make such a bold invitation, though Rory suspected a few of them wanted to (and he overheard at least one woman propositioning an older man). Knowing he’d feel guilty or at least annoyed to be taken up on such an offer, Rory managed to imply a great deal without ever allowing himself to be pinned down.

Mother declared the night an absolute success, persuading Alastair to stay and have a few celebratory drinks with them. Even Remy seemed in a good enough mood.

Rory had already had a glass or two of champagne, but Mother was toasting, and Remy was drinking, and it seemed unfair for Remy to be drinking without him.

By bedtime he had gone somewhere beyond pleasantly buzzed into tipsy. It took far too much concentration to navigate the stairs, so sleeping probably wasn't the best idea.

Rory went to the bathroom, and washed his face. He thought he was a little more sober now, but didn't fully trust his own judgement.

When he left the bathroom, Remy was sitting on the bed, in one of his pajama shirts that she liked to borrow.

She smiled. "I enjoyed tonight."

"I think I had too much to drink," Rory admitted.

Remy snorted. "You're such a lightweight, Rory."

"It wasn't just the drinks with Mother," he said defensively. "It's the whole being social thing. I see somebody else taking a glass, I take a glass, this happens ten times…"

"Oh, please, you did not have twelve glasses or you'd be on the floor."

"It was hyper… hyperba… exaggeration," Rory grumbled, sitting down next to her. "And anyway, how would you know what my tolerance is?"

"I know what _my_ tolerance is, and I weigh slightly more than you," Remy pointed out.

Rory thought about it. "I'm not sure that's how it works."

She sighed. "Do I have to babysit you, or can we sleep?"

"You want to sleep?" It came out somewhat more incredulous than Rory had intended.

Remy rolled her eyes. "Yes, that's why I'm wearing pajamas. But if you're going to be a needy drunk I can stay awake."

Rory scowled. "You can sleep."

She made a frustrated noise and threw her hands up. "That's not what I… I was trying to be nice!"

Rory wasn't sure if it was the champagne or if that actually didn't make any sense. "What was the nice part? That you think I'm needy?"

Remy pulled at her hair. _"No_ , you stupid idiot. That I'm not going to sleep if you're unhappy and want to talk about how you didn't like the party."

"Ball," Rory said, because it was all he could think of.

Remy groaned. "Who cares what it's called? I hate you!" She paused. "No, I don't."

Rory smiled, touched. "I did like the party. I wouldn't want to do it again tomorrow, but it was interesting."

"Well, good." They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Remy said, "No one bothered you, did they?"

Rory had no idea what she was talking about. "What?"

"Like before, with that woman at the salon," Remy said softly, leaning in. "No one made you feel uncomfortable? Persuaded you to do things you didn't want to do?"

Rory shook his head. She was so close.

Remy closed her eyes in something that looked oddly like relief. "Good." She bumped her nose against his. "Then I don't have to kill anyone."

Afterwards, he'd never know why that was what made him kiss her.

She was still, so still that Rory realized immediately he'd made a horrible mistake. "Sorry!" he blurted out, pulling back. "I was aiming for your cheek! I'm just… really disoriented!"

Remy said nothing, only looked at him with an expression he couldn't read.

In the morning, Rory could barely make eye contact with his sister, he was so ashamed. He stared at his plate and wondered if it was possible to eat when your stomach felt like it was trying to claw its way out of your body.

"Sweetheart," Mother said gently, after everyone else had finished eating, "I know you put yourself out there last night, and that was very brave of you."

Rory stared at her in horror.

"You don't have to be embarrassed. I know it doesn't seem like it now, but the girls and boys you were talking to were just as nervous as you were. I promise no one thinks any less of you for experimenting with a bolder approach."

Rory slumped in his chair. She had no idea. "I know, Mother."

He hadn't been experimenting. He had been trying to convince himself that he could want something that wasn't terrible and destructive and wrong. That he could want someone that didn't look like him, that didn't share his birthdays, that wasn't _his sister_.

If that had been an experiment, it was clearly a failure.

Rory started packing a bag that day in secret, only the essentials, only the bare minimum he needed to survive somewhere else. He wanted to be good. He wanted Remy to be good too, but she couldn't with him around setting her an example. He was going to be eighteen soon anyway, and it was legal for him to work and live alone at that age. He'd explain to Remy and Mother that he needed to be independent for a while, and leave on his birthday. Remy's birthday. Remy could celebrate with Mother, and maybe they'd grow closer.

After he had made that resolution, it was easy to go downstairs and talk to his sister and everyone like nothing was wrong.

The weather had warmed up, not enough to feel like spring was really around the corner, but enough so that no one looked twice at Rory going out for a walk in it. He went nowhere in particular, wandering through bookshops and bakeries and past the docks and the carriages.

One of the bakeries was looking for help. Rory thought he might go in and ask tomorrow.

With that thought in his head, Rory ate dinner and conversed brightly with Mother. Remy ate next to him as always, contributing to discussion occasionally but not substantially, which was nothing new for her. She'd always said she hated Mother's dinner topics.

They said their goodnights, and departed to their separate bedrooms. Rory washed up for the night, and climbed under the covers.

The door opened.

Rory shot up in bed, just in time to see Remy close the door behind her. She smiled at him, as though nothing had happened last night.

"I'm glad it's getting warmer," she said. "I don't think I could stand to play another round of piquet with Catherine."

Rory swallowed. "It's been a long winter."

Remy crossed to his bed and sat down next to him, putting her hand on his. "See how cold I am? It's a good thing you-"

He couldn't do this. "Remy, stop. You have to go. You can't sleep here anymore."

Remy stared at him. "Why? What are you talking about?"

"It's me," Rory said quickly, desperately. "You haven't done anything wrong. I'm… I'm not safe. Not the way you thought I was. And I can't save you, because I can't even save _myself_. And I just-"

She kissed him.

Rory was thunderstruck. At first he couldn't believe it was happening, couldn't think what to do. But then she began to pull away, and he didn't want her to go, so he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back into another kiss, a real kiss.

It was clumsy. At least, Rory was clumsy. Remy was proficient, and it broke his heart. He tangled his hands in her long red hair and pulled her close, because she was _here_ and she was _his_ and nothing that had happened before this mattered anymore.

"I don't need to be saved," Remy whispered. "Promise." She nipped at his ear, and Rory shivered. He leaned to kiss her cheek and ended up somewhere on her jaw, banging his nose as she turned her head.

"Owww…"

Remy kissed his nose, her hair sliding over her shoulders, brushing against his bare chest as she unbuttoned his shirt.

Rory could see her nipples, hard underneath her nightdress. He yanked the bodice open, and Remy gasped, but made no move to cover herself. There was something almost animal in the way that she looked at him then, and when she pulled him into a rough kiss, nails digging into his back, Rory bit her lip and she moaned, making him throb.

Impulsively he kissed her throat, kissed between her breasts. Remy made an impatient noise and pulled his hair. Rory looked up, slightly dazed from the pain, and she pointedly pinched her nipples.

When he took one into his mouth she sighed. When he bit it, she cried out, whether from pleasure or pain or both he couldn't tell.

And then Remy grabbed his shoulders and pushed him down onto the bed. "That hurt," she said huskily.

"I'm s-" His breath hitched when she grabbed him through the fabric of his pajama bottoms.

"I could bite you too," Remy whispered.

Rory panted, unable to think. He was completely at her mercy and he had never been so hard, but this wasn't… this wasn't...

Remy smiled, and let go. She slid her hips forward, straddling him. Rory didn't like the way that she was looking at him, the way she always looked at him when there was something she knew and he didn't.

Remy tipped her head back, arching her breasts forward, and Rory seized her by the wrist and pulled her down to the bed, rolling over so he was on top of her.

Remy stared at her wrist in disbelief, pinned to the bed by Rory's hand which was barely larger than hers. Then she looked up at him, and this expression was different, not smug but not afraid either, but... pleased.

Rory leaned down and kissed her, softly, just to make her mad. In the process, he shifted on top of her so his erection was pressing between her legs. Remy moaned something into his mouth, and stroked his chest with her free hand.

Somehow, she got one of her legs around his hips, and started grinding up against his groin, and then it was Rory who was moaning, letting go of her wrist so he could grope at her breasts with both hands, and Remy was so _warm_ and _soft_ and _shameless_.

Rory came hard, with Remy still moving against him. He had just enough self-control to collapse next to her instead of on top of her. Remy ground against his thigh one last time, and then relaxed, panting, their legs still tangled together.

The bliss slowly faded, and the reality of what they had just done began to sink in. Shame twisted Rory's belly. He was no better than all the rest. He had taken advantage of Remy like every man before him. Was this how he showed his love for his sister?

Worse yet, Remy was looking at him with the softest, sweetest smile he'd ever seen on her face. She pressed her forehead and nose against his, closed her eyes and whispered, "I love you, Rory."

He could have cried.

Instead he closed his eyes and held her to him, until he could tell by her slow breathing that she had fallen asleep.

How could she look so peaceful after something so sordid? Rory felt like he was going to vomit- not because he hadn't enjoyed himself, but because he _had_. He was worse than those men, because he was her brother and he had a responsibility to her, and he'd put his own stupid cock before that.

He had no choice. This couldn't go on, for Remy's sake, and for Rory's. He had to leave tonight, before anyone found out.

It was a good thing he had already packed his bag. There was only room for little luxuries, which could be easily obtained creeping around the room without waking Remy.

She looked so happy.

She'd be better off without him.

Leaving her hurt, more than anything else had ever hurt in Rory's life, but that was part of the point, wasn't it? He'd done a terrible thing, and he needed to be punished. Staying with her would only make it harder for him to be good.

He took a couple books of poetry and, after a moment's hesitation, the picture of Remy from last year's birthday party, which he tucked into one of the books.

_Remember why you're doing this._

He left.

Each door he had to quietly close felt like another nail being driven into him. By the time he made it down to where the carriages stood that took passengers to the capital and outside the country, Rory was in tears. He cried himself to sleep in the bushes.

Getting passage to the capital was easy, after that. Rory was still well dressed and well spoken, even if he was a little bedraggled from sleeping outside, and he had the money for it. They asked no questions, and Rory got in with a few men who let him sit by the window and doze off occasionally on the way.

"Running off to start a new life, huh, kid?" One of them said, not unkindly. "Takes guts. Hope you've got them."

Rory closed his eyes. _I'm not doing this because I'm brave. I just have to._

When they arrived in the capital, Rory wished he could turn back, but he knew that was no longer an option. He hadn't thought this out nearly enough. He had no connections here, which was good in that it would be hard to track him down, but bad in that he didn't know his way around and had no idea how to go about learning.

He was able to find a room over a reasonably reputable looking pub, at least. It wouldn't last forever if he didn't get a job, but it was a bath, bed and roof over his head. After washing up, he set out to look for work, making a note of where he was staying so he could get back.

Rory had forgotten to bring most of his recipes, but he thought he could do the better ones from memory if called upon. Unfortunately, there were no restaurants or bakeries that were willing to let a stupid boy demonstrate his skills without references or training.

Night after night, Rory returned to his room, shoulders slumped, increasingly aware of his dwindling finances. Everyone wanted references, and no one had any use for a kid from out of town that had clearly never worked a day in his life.

"Is there _any_ job that's willing to take on someone who doesn't know anyone?" Rory complained.

"Sex work," the girl behind the bar said dryly.

It was probably a joke, but… Rory really needed the money. He knew he could resort to picking pockets, but he was scared of getting caught and jailed or sent back home.

Still, he didn't know anything about prostitution, apart from that it was legal if you were eighteen, which he would be soon. "Who would I talk to if I wanted to get an idea of what that would be like?" Rory asked, carefully.

The girl gave him a long look. "The more expensive places don't let their workers out on their own. Still, we get some people from the Garden on Sundays, under the strict understanding that no one harasses them, because they could get into real trouble if their owner catches them doing anything off the books. But if you're looking for professional advice…"

Rory talked to a lot of people before Sunday. He found out that you couldn't be a prostitute without effectively becoming someone's property, and that it was very very difficult to get out. He found out that the higher paying your clients tended to be, the more likely it was that your owner would look after your interests (what would happen if your clients happened to be the ones hurting you… no one was willing to say) but that you also had less freedom in your day to day life if you were a "major investment."

Dress codes also varied from brothel to brothel, though anyone with far too much jewelry on in public was likely to be a prostitute. Slaves were branded by their owners, and could be sold at any time, unless of course you managed to steal your own contract, though even then it helped to have government connections who could put you down as officially freed.

The specifics of the job… Rory was too embarrassed to ask regular people. Prostitution was a controversial subject in politics, and so plenty were willing to talk about the rules and regulations of it and comment on whether it should be banned or permitted or regulations altered. And many boys and girls around Rory's age were fascinated enough by it to give him tips on how to spot likely prostitutes and brothel owners. But none of them would know what it was really like, or if Rory had the slightest chance of getting a living out of it.

Sunday afternoon, Rory sat in the pub underneath his lodgings and stared at the wall, willing himself not to look around too desperately for someone who would tell him if he was making an awful mistake.

"Hey, kid. Mind if I sit down?"

Rory turned, and saw an older woman with bangles and three necklaces, otherwise respectably dressed. "Sure," he said, swallowing.

She smiled, and ordered a beer. "I'm Chantilly. I hear you're thinking about being fresh meat?"

Slightly embarrassed, he nodded. "So you…"

"Work at the Garden, yeah." Chantilly sighed. "It's not the worst place around. But if you're looking for someone sketchy enough to buy an underage boy, the Garden's not for you."

Rory buried his face in his hands. "It's that obvious? I mean, I'll be eighteen in a few weeks, I'm not _that_ young."

"Kid, let's get one thing straight. Are you doing this for the money or do you think having sex for money sounds like a dream come true?"

Rory looked up at her. "For the money," he said, after a moment. "I'm almost broke, and I haven't got references or experience. It's this or stealing."

To his surprise, Chantilly nodded. "That's fair. I'm not saying it's never fun, but if you're working for a pimp that won't let you turn any clients down, it can go from a wet dream to a nightmare real fast. As long as you're going in with your eyes open. You ever done it?"

Rory flushed. "Sort of."

Chantilly tilted her head. "Sort of? Did you say yes and did somebody get off on it?"

"Yes," Rory muttered. "Once."

"So you're not a totally sheltered teenager. Okay, was it with a man or a woman?"

"Woman," Rory said tartly. "Is there anything else you need to know?"

"I'm not exactly asking for diagrams, kid. The important thing is, can you pass for a virgin?"

That had not been what Rory was expecting. "Well, yeah, but wouldn't they rather-"

"Horny eighteen year old boys that want to fuck for money are a dime a dozen," Chantilly said flatly. "Youth is a commodity. Virginity is a novelty. Wealthy men pay through the roof for the privilege of virgin ass. But if you don't think you can get it up for a guy, you'd better back out now."

Rory frowned. "I don't think I'm necessarily gay, but… all I need to do is pretend I'm excited by them and um, look ready, right?"

"Think about it. Practice," Chantilly grinned when Rory didn't blush. "You're young so you can probably get hard from a strong breeze, but if you're too nervous to perform, you won't last long. If you can do that, and you can convince clients you think they're amazing and that no one's ever gotten you off before, I can think of at least one place desperate enough to buy what you're selling, no questions asked. Interested?"

"Sure." Rory folded his hands. "So what am I getting into?"

"Well, you'll be a slave," Chantilly said flatly. "If you want to leave, you either have to be such bad news that you get sold somewhere else or have a good escape plan, preferably one that includes your documents of sale. The place I'm thinking of, it's only got one bouncer. That's a plus and a minus. It means if you decide you'd rather steal than screw, you're more likely to get away with it. But it also means you scream for help, it probably doesn't matter."

Rory swallowed, thinking of Remy. "So why this place?"

Chantilly grinned. "The Teahouse charges a lot and puts on a good front, but they've only got two girls and three guys. Not only that, people say the services offered there tend to be for very specific kinds of clients. Which means they're on the lookout for something new, exciting and niche to drum up business, and given that they bought a guy a couple months back who was kicked out of the Garden, they're not too picky about how they get it."

"Wait, why was he kicked out? Was he dangerous?"

"Oh, no, he was all talk." Chantilly shrugged. "If you're important enough you can get away with a bad attitude, but Axis badmouthed clients who passed him over, and that's no way to make friends. He's the top earner at the Teahouse now, and let me tell you, if that dickhead is the best they've got, they'd snatch up a kid in a second if he could play innocent for the right price."

Well, if there was one thing Rory was absolutely certain he could do, it was play innocent. Hadn't Remy always said so? He remembered the Lady Bianca, who had only held on tighter as he blushed and stammered. He could believe there was money in humiliation.

By the time he had gotten directions to the Teahouse, Rory had his approach carefully planned out.

It was a nicer building than he had expected. From the outside, it looked like it could be someone's home. When Rory walked through the doors, he found himself in an entrance that looked not unlike the parlor at home, if more ostentatiously extravagant and cold.

"What are you doing here?"

Rory spun around guiltily, and saw an albino of indeterminate gender with a sword. "Sorry!" He pulled himself together, though not too much. "I was actually looking for work? I heard you wanted people."

"Argent." There was a truly intimidating man scowling at the top of the stairs. "Does this _person_ have an appointment?"

"He's not a customer," the albino said flatly. "He wants to work here."

Rory caught a look of surprise before the man's expression darkened again. "If you're telling the truth, come up to my office. I don't take kindly to people who can't afford our prices sneaking around."

A bit taken aback, Rory said, "I'm telling the truth. Where's your office?"

The man inclined his head and walked off, leaving Rory to run up the stairs in pursuit. He couldn't believe how rude this man was. Everyone knew you couldn't tell how wealthy a person was (or who they knew) just by their looks, so what did he think he was doing? Okay, so Rory really was broke, but…

They reached what Rory supposed was the office, and the man sat behind a large desk, gesturing for Rory to sit opposite. "Consider this your interview. I am Xanthe Atros, proprietor of the Teahouse." He put on glasses, and peered at what looked like paperwork.

"Rory Dubois." Rory shifted awkwardly. "I heard you wanted someone to help in the kitchen?"

Atros' thick eyebrows rose. "You heard wrong. We're well supplied in that arena."

Rory opened his eyes wide in false surprise. "Really? I can't believe it. I've been looking everywhere, and no one will take me because they think I'm too young." He heaved a great sigh, and looked away to give Atros time to process that. "I'd do just about anything to get a job now. I don't know anyone here, and I'm running out of money. Are you sure there isn't something I could do?"

Atros adjusted his glasses. "How old did you say you were?"

"Eighteen," Rory said quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. "I am, I can prove it."

"I believe you," Atros said, pulling out some kind of form. "And if you want a job here, we'd be happy to have you. Provided you sign over your ownership to me, and see clients with the others."

This was delicate territory. Rory hesitated. "I'm not sure," he said, nervously. "I mean, to do that, don't you have to… shouldn't you… I mean, I…" He swallowed, and played his trump card. "I've never had sex with anyone. Is that okay?"

Atros dropped his pen, and looked up with shock. Rory bit his lip and twisted his fingers and kept himself from being too satisfied. The key to pretending to be someone you weren't was to think like that person.

"You're a virgin," Atros stated. There was definitely something like excitement in his face. "You are a male virgin of eighteen, that is correct?"

Rory nodded, blinking as though he were puzzled. "Yeah. It's kind of embarrassing…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Can I still have the job?"

"Have you gone to any of our competitors with this offer?"

That genuinely did surprise Rory. "No?"

"Good." Atros was filling something out. "You'll live here, room and board paid for. I'll give you a percentage of your earnings to spend as you wish, which I anticipate will be substantial. After the contract is signed, we will arrange for your branding."

He'd almost forgotten about that little detail. "Um," Rory tried to be casual, "where will it be? The brand, I mean?"

"Sole of the foot. Standard."

Rory really doubted that was standard. "Won't it get infected?"

"You won't often be on your feet." Rory stared at him, but Atros didn't notice, taking one last look over the contract. "Put in your birthday, full legal name, and use this ink for your thumb print. Sign at the bottom. If you want to use a false name, we can arrange that later."

Rory did as he was told, though his stomach was beginning to drop. "Should I put the date next to my signature?"

"If you like."

Atros looked over the contract once Rory was done, and frowned. "According to the birthday you wrote here, you don't turn eighteen for another two weeks."

Rory froze.

"I’ll scratch out today’s date. You'll join the lineup on June the 7th."

Rory had played his hand perfectly, and yet he was starting to get a sick feeling in his stomach. "O-okay."

That night, Rory remembered what Remy had said once, in what seemed almost another lifetime.

_You'll never understand me.  
_

_You'll never understand me._

Maybe this was the one way that he could have some idea what his sister had gone through. From the little he had pieced together, he suspected if there was any way to understanding her, it lay at the end of this road. And hadn't he thought that he should be punished for doing what he did?

Then someday, he could apologize. Every time Rory thought of Remy he felt sick. He had been a coward, and a selfish coward at that. He thought that he had run because Remy kissed him instead of leaving the room, but the more he thought about it the more he realized it had been because of her smile.

Rory sat on the bed and looked at Remy's picture. They had never been happy. They had always been happy. She had never loved him. She had always loved him.

_I love you, Remy._

_I'm so sorry._

**Author's Note:**

> title from the poem Les Coquillages by Paul Verlaine


End file.
